


Sword-Shattering Fear Filled Me Overflowing

by Nellsie



Series: Mighty of Arm and Warmest of Heart [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-02-08 20:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12872781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nellsie/pseuds/Nellsie
Summary: A nonlinear account of the lifetime of Inquisitor Daffodil Trevelyan.





	1. and from the chaos walked the herald,

Seeker Cassandra explains the situation with little ambiguity. Trevelyan is a suspect, and the breach in the sky, as far as anyone is concerned, is her doing.

Trevelyan barely processes it. Staring through bleary vision and hearing through ringing ears, she tries to understand. There is a chain connected to her wrist. She’s a _prisoner,_ now.

Seeing the breach is worse than hearing about it. Seeing the fresh wound in the sky, understanding nothing about it. “You think I did that?” She asks Cassandra.

She agrees to help, if she even can. She sees the reaction of the people―people who believe, of all things, that Trevelyan might’ve killed the Divine―as she is escorted through crowds of them. She passes a man who looks at her like dirt under his shoe. She passes a woman who covers her child’s eyes. Trevelyan wants to scream―she could not have killed the Divine! Instead, she dutifully stares at the ground as Cassandra pushes her forwards.

There is more screaming the further they go. Soldiers running from the breach and demons falling from the sky. At one point it is little more than survival instinct that dictates Trevelyan grabbing the helm of the greatsword, and little more than a miracle that she has the strength to fight.

She remembers tactics taught from her brother―and if life did not present another purpose to Trevelyan, she would have become a Templar. She would have given her life away to service the Maker, and yet she stands accused of killing an agent of His faith.

* * *

She could not have become a Templar. Something would have intervened. She could not have survived the training of a Templar―not because she is delicate, for she is the opposite, but because she is the opposite of a Templar. Light and power stands ready at her fingers but the option stands behind a locked door.

Her brother has a faded burn mark on the side of his neck, and he has spent spent years of his life looking at Trevelyan with the same hatred as the others―but he has no need for murderous accusation. He knows of her magic and, in another world, he has circumvented this moment. In another world, there is a different Trevelyan being sent to the conclave.

Thankfully, that world is never wrought.

* * *

 The elven apostate, Solas, speaks of the mark like it is a part of Trevelyan, but more than that, he looks at her with the strangest of stares. As if he can see right through her. Trevelyan pays it no mind, but in the back of her mind she wonders.

Varric Tethras speaks in quips and argues playfully with the Seeker. Trevelyan cannot keep up with his humor, but it lightens the heavy weight on the situation. She wonders if that’s his goal.

She meets others―Leliana she has already spoken to as a prisoner, Grand Chancellor Roderick talks of Trevelyan as one talks of a heretic or assassin, and Cullen carries himself like many Templars do. Daffodil sees the same lyrium veins peaking at his temples. She recognizes them as she did the ones on her brother’s face.

At the remains of the Conclave, Trevelyan meets the echo of her deeds. She was right, in that she did not kill the Divine, but the memory remains fragmented in her mind. She quakes in her armor, but quickly straightens out. Her strength overpowers her fear.

The pride demon takes the last of her strength, though, and after facing it she collapses, and when she wakes, people call her the Herald of Andraste, and upon hearing the title Trevelyan decides she is not.


	2. an ostwick daffodil,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of Halamshiral lead themselves to a lot of introspection, on the part of Trevelyan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk man sometimes you just write ya dig?

Trevelyan is presented to the court as Lady Inquisitor Daffodil Eluviesta Trevelyan, Daughter of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick and Champion of the Blessed Andraste herself. She resists the urge to reach for the nearest champagne flute and down it then and there.

* * *

 

Trevelyan stands awkwardly amongst the nobility. She’s always avoided things like this―ballroom dance floors and royal intrigue are hardly her specialties―but somehow the Inquisition has roped her into joining them at an  _ Orlesian ball, _ of all things.

Of course, Trevelyan’s unease with the partygoers is the least of her concerns. So she decides to keep her focus on the task at hand―preventing the assassination of Empress Celine―rather than on her own discomfort.

Though it is difficult  _ not _ to focus on her discomfort when the third noble of the night approaches her, poetically squawking about how he recognized her beauty from across the room and simply  _ had _ to approach her.

“You, Lady Trevelyan,” He says, loud enough so his voice cannot be muffled by his mask, “have the delicate beauty and poise of an Orlesian daisy, and I am honored to have you in my wake.”

Trevelyan simply stares before informing him that his wedding ring has fallen into his wine glass.

* * *

 

She does talk to her advisors over the course of the evening. They talk of various things. Josephine’s younger sister is delightful. Leliana wants secrets. Cullen is popular among the Orlesian marrying crowd.

And her companions, too. Cassandra is similarly disenchanted with the court, though that would require having ever been enchanted with it in the first place. Vivienne instructs Trevelyan on how to fix her posture.

Sera is smiling as she watches and comments on the extra toes and familial relations of certain nobles.

Trevelyan wants to ask her to dance, but she doesn’t. She’s never danced at one of these things before. She wouldn’t know how to move her feet and the thought of fumbling and tripping in front of Sera is less than ideal. Besides, such a public display of affection isn’t typical of her. It would be… unwarranted.

(So she doesn’t ask, but she wants to. She so desperately wants to.)

* * *

 

Often, when she was a child, Trevelyan would be dragged to parties of this nature, and little thirteen-year-old Trevelyan would stand at the edge of the ballroom, impatiently counting the minutes before she could go home.

Of course, that was a long time ago. Nowadays there are far more politics involved, and Trevelyan is less likely to get away with squaring herself off in some corner, hiding away from others. Now Trevelyan is older, but she still feels like a child knee-deep in self-awareness. Still feels that her shoulders are too broad, as is her jawline. Still feels that she draws too much attention as the stalwart warrior, but maybe that would be a better kind of attention than the kind she would get as a gentle princess.

Though perhaps she is still that grubby child, merely facing those same problems with more intensity. She is no longer wondering about the fire that escapes her fingertips or the memories that have managed to slip away, instead she is wondering about the fate of Thedas and the consequences of those memories―what they mean for her and for that little child she used to be.

Trevelyan is thinking about this too much. She climbs the lattice in the yard and purges all thoughts of unexpected magic acts from her mind.

* * *

 

The Grand Library―as well as every closed-off sector of the Winter Palace―is full of secrets, but none so surprising that Trevelyan is incredibly shocked. Celene likes magic, Gaspard is a traitor, Briala had an affair. It’s all very typical of the Game, which annoys Trevelyan much like a buzzing fly. She finds herself feeling grateful that, at least in the Free Marches, things were never so complicated.

Of course, Daffodil was hardly the charming, silver-tongued Trevelyan. That credit would be handed to her brother, who could talk circles around anyone, even Daffodil.

(When he wasn’t pretending she didn’t exist.)

As nobility, Drake outclassed his sister. He had no trouble dancing with men and women for the sake of politeness, and never faltered when presented with unwanted suggestions for his future. He could be shaped into anything their parents wanted. The worldly oldest child, the skilled warrior, the devoted Templar. An empty suit of armor to be worn by any version of Drake Trevelyan, really.

Still, he wouldn’t play the fool, and every move he made was calculated. Everything leading to an end he wanted, and Daffodil never really knew what it was he wanted.

* * *

 

Daffodil hates him, now. She really does. Hates everything he did and every standard demanded of him. Hates the hatred he showed her and the scar he gave her, and yet she still thinks of him, sometimes.

She thinks of the brother he was, and he’s shining then. He’s something to aspire to. A mirror of hopes with a Templar’s face reflecting on the surface, and yet when put under the slightest bit of scrutiny he shatters. An illusion, it seems. A cruel trick only revealed upon further inspection.

She suspects she always knew what kind of man he was. She just kept shining the glass, picking up the broken shards of the mirror. Changing the facts and the memories. Trying to find the goodness in a brother who refused to even consider the goodness in her.

* * *

 

(there is goodness in her.)

* * *

 

Trevelyan is late to the ballroom when the bell rings, but Lady Morrigan catches her before she can enter.

She’s enchanting, really. Dazzling in her gown and so intriguing when she speaks. Trevelyan wants to spend hours asking her questions, but instead she is left to wonder where exactly Morrigan’s loyalties lie.

Florianne asks Trevelyan to dance. “Spies cannot hear us on the dance floor,” she says. Trevelyan is awkward, she doesn’t know the steps and she barely remembers the method of deflecting every question that nobles seem to love. She’s relieved when the dance ends.

(Some childish embarrassment in her speaks out, because  _ Andraste’s ass, _ she hopes Sera didn’t see her out there. It’s humiliating.

She still wants to dance with Sera.)

“Florianne is up to something,” Trevelyan tells her advisors. Cullen wants to raise up Gaspard. Josephine wants to preserve Celene’s right to the throne. Leliana thinks Celene is absolutely disposable. Trevelyan needs more time to think.

* * *

 

The elven servants are being put in danger by Briala. The mercenaries are being hired and put in danger by Gaspard. Florianne is working for Corypheus. It’s all very complicated and obnoxious and  _ Maker’s breath, _ Trevelyan would love another drink.

By the time she returns to the ballroom, she is exhausted, but Maker knows she wants to avoid more bloodshed. She speaks to Florianne, and the Inquisition takes her alive.

Celene is exposed to the heft of Gaspard’s crimes, and she is ready to put him to death, but Trevelyan intervenes. Death is the last thing she wants to be exposed to, at this very moment. Still, she can’t help but feel awful for Briala, who gets nothing from this despite being so promising.

Afterwards, Celene speaks of the debt Orlais owes to the Inquisition, and specifically to its Inquisitor. The conversation looms over Trevelyan’s head like a storm cloud.

Then it’s over, and all is done and cannot be changed. Trevelyan sits on the balcony, staring out at the nation she’s just affected, debating every decision she’s made.

Morrigan is shining. Morrigan is fascinating and she speaks of old and new magic alike. She allies herself with the Inquisition, and Trevelyan is glad, but she hates the way Morrigan looks at her.

(She hates the way all mages look at her, like they see past the denial. The layers of armor and Andrastianism and warrior training. Like they understand Trevelyan and pity her all at the same time. It’s the way Solas looks at her and it’s the way Dorian looks at her and it’s the way Vivienne looks at her, and now it’s the way Morrigan looks at her.)

Trevelyan  _ understands _ now. She’s seen her magic and the effects of it. She’s accepted it, or likes to believe she has. She has little control over it. It fizzles and refuses to make contact if she attempts to cast spells, and she thinks that years of ignoring it may have weakened it, or maybe it has become diluted over the years. There are mages who learn of their abilities when they’re barely older than toddlers, and yet Trevelyan is thirty and she is unfit.

* * *

 

Sera is dazzling. The Inquisition uniform is hardly a gaudy outfit, but somehow just seeing her makes everything brighter, and Trevelyan is often cloaked in a darkness unfit for her―unfit for anyone, but undeserved as well―but  _ Sera _ just makes sense. She makes everything seem clearer.

“Honey Tongue,” she says, “Inky,” and it’s all so wonderful. Trevelyan wants to ask her to dance, but she is armored and alone and tired. So  _ tired. _

“I need time to think,” Trevelyan says. The night has been long and exhausting, and Trevelyan is beginning to bend under the pressure of the Inquisition. The weight of this burden on her shoulders.

(She wants to dance but it isn't fitting of her. It isn't  _her.)_

Sera knows that this is awful. Sera knows that this is  _ awfulexhaustingliferuining _ but she doesn’t argue. “Stay out here― _ thinking _ or whatever, I’ll be inside.”

She stops. Trevelyan is steadfast, she is unchanged. She is behind every possible wall and impervious to every blow, but Sera knows. Behind it all is simply a person― _ Daffodil _ ―but the Inquisition demands a lot from her. “Get better, please?” Sera says.

Trevelyan looks at the stars in the night sky above Halamshiral.

(She should have asked her to dance.)

**Author's Note:**

> lol back on my bullshit.


End file.
